


The United Beat of Sex and Heart Together

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Dorian, Bottom Dorian Pavus, Dom Iron Bull, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Established Sexual Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Intercrural Sex, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manhandling, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Size Kink, Strength Kink, Sub Dorian Pavus, Teasing, Top Iron Bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: Dorian and the Iron Bull have had sex a few times now.  They do it again.  Though they're still in denial of it being anything more, feelings have already gotten involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”  
> ― Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus
> 
> Mostly a PWP that's more affectionate than the characters will admit. Dorian likes to play hard to get, but the BDSM and dom/sub elements are light--in terms of bondage there's some restraint of Dorian's hands/wrists with the Bull's hands but nothing more formal, and the power play is understated, though I think there's still a dom/sub dynamic here. I gave it the orgasm delay tag because it's clear Dorian would like to go faster and Bull is slowing things down to string him out.
> 
> I actually wrote this quite some time ago, but I'm only just getting around to polishing and posting it now.

Dorian pants into the blankets, squirming in his hips in a way the Bull is sure he’ll deny later on, working himself on the thick, slickly oiled finger the Bull’s already pressed into the tight heat of his ass. The mage sure is a tight-ass, he thinks with amusement, in the best way. He’ll tell him that later and Dorian will huff like he’s not amused at all and not quite smile. The way he rolls his hips is _nice_ , almost hypnotic, liquid and somehow graceful and needy all at once. He’s swearing in Tevene, louder when he gets a wad of cloth in his mouth, and then the Bull crooks his finger against that spot, up into that tight, rippling heat inside him and the words break off on a low groan. Dorian bucks back and the Bull tightens his hand in his hair, holding him still. “Hey, hey,” he says, “none of that, now,” and Dorian swears at him. “I know,” the Bull says, and laughs, rubbing his finger insistently, over that spot inside. “Feel good?”

 

“I’m surprised you even know where to f-f-ah- _find_ it,” Dorian gets out, in the common tongue this time, gasping heavily over the words.

 

If that’s all he’s got, he must be far gone already. The Bull is delighted by that, Dorian must really like this—he’ll be keeping that in mind for later, that’s for damn sure. He rubs his finger over that spot a little firmer, a little slower, and Dorian gasps, a low indrawn breath that moans as he lets it out, and mutters soft, slurred, fast words under his breath.

 

“Aw, I’ve got a few tricks,” the Bull tells him, tightens his hand in his hair again, careful not to actually pull hard enough to hurt, just enough to tilt Dorian’s head back, loving the way the strands of his hair are all messy, curling around his fist now that he’s messed them up good. He leans down and presses sucking, biting kisses over Dorian’s shoulder, down his spine, making them good and wet, with plenty of teeth. Dorian’s ass is still so fire-hot and tight around his finger, and the way he’s rolling it is hard to look away from, but his skin tastes good, hot and salt-sweet. The tone in the mage’s voice shifts as he keeps stroking him from the inside, long and slow, shifting his hand to press his thumb in against that spot between the man’s balls and his hole and Dorian hitches his knees up and wide, loses some of the edge he’s been managing to keep up in his voice this long. Pretty soon, the Bull’s betting, it’ll turn pleading, begging.

 

“Only a—a few,” Dorian gasps, groaning again into the pillows. His mouth is open, his eyes shut.

 

For all his sharp tongue and stinging words, Dorian plays by the rules—his hands haven’t moved from where the Bull told him to put them, digging into the bedspread, twisted up in the blankets so hard his fingers probably ache, but he hasn’t moved them. The Bull bites at the muscle of his shoulder, runs his lips down his spine, shuddery-soft, and Dorian whines, a tremor goes through him all over, down to his toes.

 

“A few’s plenty,” the Bull grunts, and pushes Dorian’s head down into the pillow, gentle enough, letting go to pour more oil into the palm of the hand in Dorian’s ass, splaying the other hand on the curve of it and pulling so that the oil drips down between Dorian’s cheeks, over the finger he’s pulled mostly out of him to catch it. He pulls it out all the way, swipes up some of the extra, and pushes it back in, massaging lightly just around Dorian’s entrance. “I don’t hear you complaining,” he adds, teasingly, sighing out at the warmth as he pushes that finger slowly back into Dorian’s body.

 

“Are you not—ah! _Listening_?” Dorian gets out, then moans, voice breaking, fingers clutching even harder into the bed.

 

“We had this talk,” the Bull reminds him, pressing that finger insistently back inside, swirling over that sweet little spot inside Dorian’s body. “You want me to stop, you say the word.” He keeps his finger gentle, easy, soft little swirls.

 

Dorian is conspicuously silent, the only sound out of him ragged breaths for the next little while.

 

“I don’t know,” the Bull says after a bit, leaning down to murmur the words into Dorian’s ear, grinning at the way his hair flops down across his nose, all mussed and curly now. He presses his finger up, further in, and Dorian gives a low, hushed little breath of a sound, and that’s all. “You’re not giving me a lot of feedback here. Maybe you really aren’t enjoying this. Maybe I should back off.”

 

Dorian twists around, forces his eyes open from the looks of it, and it’s a rare thing to see a look on his face that soft and hazy with want and still that poisonous at the same time. “Don’t you dare,” he bites out, accent all clipped and precise.

 

The Bull swirls his finger around inside, and Dorian gives a choked off, desperate noise, his eyes going wide. “Are you sure you want this?” the Bull asks.

 

“I’m so bloody sure that I—ahhh—” his voice breaks in the middle of that one, the Bull notes with pleasure “—I shall enact a fiery and painful revenge upon you if you stop now.”

 

“I don’t know,” the Bull says, grinning now, “sounds kinda hot. Literally.”

 

Dorian groans like he’s been mortally wounded and thumps his head into the pillow, twice. “How did this happen to me,” he mutters. The Bull pushes his finger in, further, more insistently, and rubs his hand through Dorian’s hair, and he cries out, then melts under it, gasping, his knees all wobbly against the bed.

 

“Born under a lucky star,” the Bull suggests, and braces his knees, slides one hand under Dorian’s chest. “Up,” he says, and heaves, hearing Dorian’s startled gasp, but he can hear how there’s no fear in it. “You can move your hands,” he tells him, and Dorian’s hands come up to clutch and scrabble against his forearm as his head thumps back against the Bull’s shoulder. “That’s it,” the Bull says, drawing his finger out of Dorian’s body, “hold on tight. Good boy.”

 

Dorian gives a short, broken whine, but he doesn’t let go, and a moment later, he’s rolling his head to one side. “I am not your good boy, you, you . . . barbarian,” he gets out, but it’s the sweetest, breathiest thing the Bull’s heard from him all night, and his knees are wobbling so bad the Bull knows he’s all that’s keeping him up—which is perfect, just how he wanted it. He ducks his head down, careful of his horns, and presses a kiss into Dorian’s hair, just above his ear.

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he murmurs with a grin, slicking up two fingers now, “you’re plenty good.” He brings them up, traces them along the crease of Dorian’s ass, prodding gently at his hole, circling them around it. Dorian huffs out an indignant breath, then loses it on a moan. His messy hair tangles across the Bull’s face, gets caught on his lips. “You ready?” the Bull asks, and Dorian spreads his legs apart as best he can, tries to push back on him.

 

“You must be joking,” he gets out. “I’m beyond ready.”

 

The Bull knows Dorian pushes, by this point, that he might not be telling the truth, and he wouldn’t hurt him for anything, but he does feel loose enough, and relaxed, so he eases the two fingers inside him this time, in short, easy twists of his wrist. Dorian gasps, arches up and then back, moans. “That’s it,” the Bull tells him, rubbing his lips over his hair. If anything, he feels even hotter and tighter inside now, but his fingers slide in without much working at it, and he crooks them up again and gets a desperate curse in response, Dorian’s fingernails digging into the meat of his arm. It’s tempting to push in a little farther, rub against that sweet spot again, but he takes it slow instead, rubbing and working at the muscle from the inside out, until Dorian’s gasping, his head sagging to the side until his forehead is lodged against the Bull’s neck, just under his chin. The Bull wants to tell him good boy again, but he doesn’t want to rile him back up, so he just kisses the top of his head and rubs his thumb against his chest, not far beneath his nipple. Dorian sucks in his breath, presses closer against the Bull’s chest, whimpers as he pushes his fingers a little farther in to him. “Easy,” the Bull murmurs down to him, keeping it down to a low rumble in his chest. “How’s that feel?”

 

“Like not nearly enough,” Dorian grits out. His chest is trembling. “Are you leading up to anything or is this just an elaborate method, a-ah, an elaborate method of teasing me into incoherence?”

 

The Bull laughs. “Don’t tempt me,” he tells him, massaging his fingers gently up into Dorian’s body. He’s so warm, and his body is opening up, softening under the Bull’s fingers. Dorian wriggles over him.

 

“Is it going to take _all_ night?” he hisses, and the Bull laughs, stilling him by tugging him back against his chest and sliding his arm down a touch over Dorian’s body.

 

“It might,” he tells him. “You’re the one who wanted to try this. Stop wiggling that cute little rear unless you want me to start smacking it.”

 

Dorian appears to consider this, and the Bull sees it as he wets his bottom lip. “I don’t wiggle,” he says breathlessly, tilting his head back onto the Bull’s shoulder, loose and lolling on his neck.

 

“What do you call it then?” the Bull asks him, pressing his fingers in a little more. Dorian gasps, arches his back and lifts his hips up, before he slumps back into the Bull’s chest, eyes wide. “Wait, is this a mage thing, too?”

 

“Exotic dance,” Dorian says breathlessly, “it’s all the rage in—” his words trail off into something in Tevene that sure as hell isn’t swearing, breathless and needy, and he twitches his hips in time to the strokes of the Bull’s fingers.

 

“The best kind of establishments?” the Bull asks, grinning. Dorian’s feeling it now, for sure, the tight squeeze around the Bull’s fingers letting up, leaving him all slick and softly fluttering inside. “Yeah, I can see how you’d do well there. Real loose in the hips.”

 

“I’m not sure to be flattered or—ah, ah, insul— _vishante kaffas_ , ah—” his words trail off again.

 

“Just go with it,” the Bull suggests, tapping one finger against that spot inside him again. Dorian tilts his head closer into the Bull’s neck, gasping loudly, eyes squeezed tight and teeth digging into his bottom lip so violently that the Bull’s half-worried he’ll draw blood, even from his angle where it’s barely visible. But then, a little blood never hurt anyone. Still—“You can make some noise,” he suggests, rubbing his fingers insistently against Dorian inside. “Who’s gonna hear?”

 

Dorian gasps, moans, half plaintively against his neck, but doesn’t respond. The Bull doesn’t push it. Guy has some issues, can’t blame him for that, and this isn’t the time for it. Instead, he nudges Dorian’s hands up along his chest, loosening their hold on the Bull’s arm. Dorian takes his hint, one hand trailing lazily up along the Bull’s chest, teasing at his nipple and making him suck in his breath (guy’s learning his spots, too, he thinks, inordinately warm and tickled at that), over his shoulder, to reach up and curl around his horn. The Bull grins at that. “Hang on tight,” he says, and Dorian sighs, all soft breath, and slides his other hand around the back of the Bull’s neck, still hanging onto his horn. “That’s a _good_ boy,” the Bull says, wickedly teasing, into the back of Dorian’s neck, curling his hand around Dorian’s hip and steadying him as he works his fingers into him, in and out, slow thrusts against that spot that have Dorian’s mouth falling open even as he huffs in offense, and his body arches over the Bull, all one long, gorgeously curving line.

 

His words are solidly Tevene now, which means they’re mostly swearing, and the Bull can’t catch half of them, but the tone is soft and breathy and pleading, and he catches the word _please_ more than once. He smiles to himself at that, and at how hard Dorian is, flushed cock standing up rigid against his belly out of his dark curls and damp with the pre-come welling up. He’s wondering now if he can get him to come just from fingers in his ass, or if that would be too big a blow to Dorian’s pride. Probably. He’s so prickly about shit like that. Too bad. It would be fucking hot. And he could, he knows it. He nudges a third finger up against Dorian’s hole and Dorian gasps, his legs tremble and twitch and the muscles flutter against the intrusion, works it in slowly. Dorian groans, goes limp against the Bull’s chest, breath whimpering. _Please_ , he says again, in his own language, and tugs on the Bull’s horn. His eyes are shut, and his body has the languid relaxation that makes the Bull think he’s far away.

 

“Easy,” he tells him, skimming his free hand up along Dorian’s chest, down again along his side. He tugs his fingers free and gets a groan and a weak slap against his shoulder, but he just pulls Dorian back further into his chest, lets his own dick slide along the crease of his ass, slip between Dorian’s thighs, and Dorian moans.

 

“Oh, look, progress,” he mutters, faintly, in the common tongue.

 

“Mouthy,” the Bull says, amused, slicking his fingers again and sliding them back into Dorian’s body. He repeats the action a few times, pressing oil into him, getting him all wet and slippery, and by the time he’s done Dorian is panting open-mouthed, writhing over him, and looking up at him with this part affronted, part pouty, part heat-clouded desire expression that is just—it’s way too adorable. The Bull leans down to kiss him, can’t help it, bites at his lips and licks his way into his mouth.

 

“Oof,” Dorian breathes, then groans as the Bull’s fingers slide further into him, and his fingernails dig into the back of the Bull’s neck, scratching (he can barely feel it, little pinpricks against his skin, but it’s still hot), his mouth opening easily for him, soft and giving like his words aren’t. The kiss goes softer, because no way is the Bull passing that one up, and Dorian’s fingernails dig in even further, his hand clenching and unclenching. It turns into something soft and warm, all tongue and soft touches of their lips, and time seems to stretch out slow with Dorian’s lips on his and the Bull’s fingers holding him, tucked into the slick heat just inside his body, palm cupped against his ass. It lasts until Dorian pulls away with a wet noise and pants, staring up at the Bull with wide, starry eyes, his mouth all puffy and shining, “are you _ever_ going to get inside me? Or will your fingers have to, to suffice?”

 

The Bull blinks, then grins. “Would you like that?” he asks, tapping his thumb against the underside curve of Dorian’s ass.

 

“They’re barely inside,” Dorian says. “Please, you’ve—you’ve barely touched me.” His voice drops down to be barely audible. “You said you’d take care of me.” It’s little more than a mumble, and a graceless one, frustrated at that, but it settles in the Bull’s chest with a surprising wrench of warmth.

 

“I sure did,” he says, and lets it be gentle. He slips his fingers out of Dorian’s body, and the mage moans, tips his head back, baring his throat. “Shh,” the Bull says, shushes him as he slicks his palm, wraps that hand around his own cock and strokes down, hissing himself at the rough wet slide and friction after so long. “I’ll give it to you,” he says, and Dorian scowls, but something in his shoulders unwinds, relaxes. _That’s it_ , the Bull thinks, and puts both hands on Dorian’s hips, lifts him up like he doesn’t weigh a thing, even though he does weigh appreciably more than a feather. He hooks his thumbs into his wet, soft hole and spreads him wide as he settles him over his cock, and Dorian chokes, presses his face into the side of his neck, both hands slipping down to curl around the back of the Bull’s neck and tighten. “Hey,” the Bull mouths into his hair, thinking about the teachings of Koslun to slow himself down as Dorian slowly opens for him just that tiny bit more and the tip of his cock slips into his body. (Well, you’ve gotta admit, they’re pretty meditative, and not that hot, and meditation _works_.) He breathes out, into Dorian’s hair, and the mussed black waves catch and hold his breath, reflect the damp heat of it back at him. Dorian moans, rocks, and the Bull catches his hips, holds them still, because there’s nothing he’d like more than to let himself go and slam up into that slicked up welcoming heat and that’s not going to happen. “Slow down, tiger,” he mumbles into the back of Dorian’s head.

 

“What did you just call me,” Dorian gasps.

 

It’s pretty fitting, the Bull thinks, remembering a tiger he saw back in Seheron, the way its eyes had traveled over him, and he hadn’t been able to look away, the breathtaking beauty and power of it. The magic and all. Yeah. He thumbs at the creases at the tops of Dorian’s thighs. “What, you’d prefer kitten?” he teases.

 

“How utterly dreadful,” Dorian drawls, but he’s laughing, the Bull can hear and feel it in his chest, then he gasps at the way it clenches him up around the tip of the Bull’s cock, and the Bull has to bury his own gasp in the back of Dorian’s neck, where it’s warm and sweat-damp under his hair, bites lightly at his nape. Dorian just groans, and his fingers bunch up into a fist at the back of the Bull’s neck.

 

“Come on, kitten,” the Bull teases him, feeling awfully breathless himself now. “Open up, relax for me, now.”

 

“This is some kind of penance,” Dorian breathes, but he spreads his legs wide and takes a deep breath, and the Bull can feel it as his body gives, lets him slip down about an inch.

 

He feels so good it’s like a punch to the gut, and the Bull takes up skimming his palm back and forth over Dorian’s smooth, gorgeous thigh (how does he get skin so smooth, anyway), while he waits to catch his breath, to be able to think about something other than that wet heat and the pure, perfect slide of him, the squeeze of his body and how he’s still so tight, the way his muscles flutter and work around the Bull’s dick. He finds himself mouthing at the back of Dorian’s neck, feeling short hair scratch under his lips, and Dorian moans, drops his head forward. His thighs are warm and lush with muscle as they work in the Bull’s hands, and his feet slide against the bed, the Bull sees his toes working out of the corner of his eye. He lets Dorian slip down another inch, lets his dick do the work of stretching him this time, and Dorian huffs out a breath, whines low in his throat, but doesn’t complain.

 

“I hope it’s the good kind,” the Bull mutters, rolling his hips just a bit. Dorian moans.

 

“The good kind . . . ?” he mumbles.

 

“You know. The kind of penance that ends in bruises, and you . . .” the Bull takes a breath, presses his lips against the hinge of Dorian’s jaw and squeezes his hips, rocking into him in slow, even movements and trying to keep his mind from catching and staying on the pleasure of being deep inside him. “You kind of turned on.”

 

“What kind of penance is that,” Dorian says breathily.

 

The Bull laughs, skims his lips down along Dorian’s neck and lets himself fuck up into him a little until Dorian is groaning, loving the feel of him as he opens for him, body letting him in. “The good kind,” he says.

 

So it’s not the deepest conversation they’ve ever had. His dick’s half in the guy’s ass, what do you expect?

 

“Is that how they—” Dorian groans, whimpers, and his dick jumps, so the Bull strokes his hands over his hips, soothing him, and he moans. “How they do it under the Qun,” Dorian finishes in a kind of breathless, needy rush of words.

 

“Nah,” the Bull admits, “not so much. Don’t you listen to anybody talk around here?”

 

“What?” Dorian asks. He sounds strung out and needy, and his head is loose on his neck.

 

“Some of those priestesses are _kinky_ ,” the Bull tells him, and slides his hands under the full curves of Dorian’s ass, pushing him up. Dorian swears, and his fist smacks against the back of the Bull’s shoulder.

 

“What do you think you’re _doing_ ,” he hisses.

 

“Moving you around,” the Bull tells him. Not like it doesn’t suck for him, too, to lose that tight heat, but this will be better, anyway. He palms Dorian’s ass, indulging himself for a second, in a slow movement that wins a groan from deep in Dorian’s chest, then pulls him up until he’s on his knees and his cock slides naturally out of him with a wet pop of a sound. Dorian hisses and swears wildly in Tevene under his breath, but he doesn’t fight as the Bull pushes him down with one hand between his shoulder blades, back down onto the bed. The thing is, he doesn’t want to go balls deep in him yet, this time; Dorian’s still a little tight around his cock, and he wants him to get that overwhelmed feeling, not split him open, leave him sore. He makes sure Dorian goes easy onto his knees, strokes his hand down his back, and it leaves Dorian shivering, mouth open against the blankets and hole clenching and unclenching on nothing like it misses the Bull’s cock. Hot. Damn, that’s hot. He rubs his thumb at the base of Dorian’s spine and Dorian gives another one of those whining sounds, his hands clenching up in the blankets and his legs trembling. His shoulders bunch up and his eyes squeeze closed; he presses his face into the blankets and gasps.

 

There’s something going on there, but it’s not something the Bull’s going to push on right now. He wants to make it easier on the guy, though, and considers as he spreads his hand out over Dorian’s side, strokes it slowly over his skin. It’s all deep, soft bronze in the candlelight, and the contrast against his own skin is something to look at, for sure. There’s a reason they’re doing it like this—the Bull might want it softer, sometimes, but Dorian likes the force, the idea of being forced, and it’s all about what he wants, what makes this easiest for him to lose himself in. _You said you were going to take care of me_. The Bull thinks about it a second, then leans down over him, bracing himself on his better knee, and gathers both of Dorian’s wrists in his, pushing Dorian’s surprisingly muscular arms into the small of his back. “Get ready,” he growls into Dorian’s ear.

 

“ _Oh_ —” the sound is small, breathless, rapidly swallowed, but Bull catches it and grins. He tugs on Dorian’s wrists, carefully calculating it to make it feel rough, twists his hand around them and gets the other one under Dorian’s hip to hike his ass up into the air. Dorian quivers, gasps, spits out, “ _manhandling barbarian_ ,” under his breath, and the Bull swats his ass. Gently, but hard enough to leave a mark. Dorian yelps, then gasps, buries the sound in the pillow as he twitches and jerks, and the Bull can see the way his cock smears wet across his stomach.

 

“That was for earlier,” he tells him, then, “Shush, now. Can you do that?” He puts his hand on his ass and squeezes, feeling the warmth where he struck on that side, and Dorian just _moans_.

 

“There is absolutely no way I will—” he starts out, low and uneven, into the pillow, and the Bull strokes his thumb down over that rosy patch on his ass that’s still radiating extra heat. Dorian’s breath stutters. “I will _shush_ for a beast of burden with—with delusions of grandeur.”

 

“Hmm,” the Bull says. “I think that earns you another swat on the ass.”

 

“Give it to me,” Dorian hisses with venom, but he pushes his knees into the bed, hikes his ass up, and if that’s not the actions of a man who wants it, the Iron Bull’s never seen a man who does (which, uh, yeah, he has). He grips his hip, tight, holds him still, and then smacks him again, keeping his hand careful, but going a little harder this time. Dorian gasps, jerks, his hands fist in the Bull’s hold as he rocks on his knees, and then the Bull runs his hand over the heated skin of his ass where he just hit, dragging just a little bit heavily on purpose, and Dorian just fucking melts into the bed, breath going all ragged.

 

“I didn’t know you had a pain kink,” the Bull says, intrigued and yeah, a little bit delighted by that, too, tracing the edge of what’s going to be a mark with his thumb.

 

Dorian tells him to go fuck himself in Tevene. The Bull knows that one.

 

“Nah,” the Bull tells him, grinning, reaching for the oil again and smearing it over his fingers, “I’d rather fuck you.”

 

“A fair rejoinder,” Dorian gasps, voice trembling a little, tugging at the Bull’s grip on his wrists. The Bull just tightens it and rubs his oil-slick fingers over the crack of Dorian’s ass, smearing the excess down his own cock.

 

“You ready?” he asks, thumbing at the sensitive skin of Dorian’s hole, feeling how warm and slick with oil it is, fluttering under the rough callus of his thumb, soft and eager.

 

“I am so far past ready I could write you an annotated essay on—” the Bull slips his thumb into him. It goes in nice and easy, Dorian’s entrance stretched and slick. He stops, words failing on a sharp, in-drawn gasp.

 

“Sounds good,” the Bull says with a smile, and slips his thumb out again, rubs two fingers at the base of Dorian’s back, just above the rise of his ass. “Relax,” he tells him, and squeezes his wrists again. Dorian whines, that low whine in his chest he makes when he really needs it. The Bull rubs him there a little bit longer, then takes his own dick in his hand, enjoying the feel of it and giving himself a little bit of a stroke just because he’s been waiting, letting the pleasure settle deep into his bones before he lines it up and sinks into Dorian’s waiting body. Dorian’s loose enough now that he can get the head in with only a little push, and the mage chokes on a strangled breath and pants into the pillows. The Bull pulls back on his hands, slides further into him, bends down over his back and mouths roughly at the back of one shoulder. “So,” he says, “don’t have to leash you to keep you under control, do I, pretty little mage?” A second later he thinks that might have been too much, but then Dorian doesn’t tense, just goes even looser and softer under him.

 

“Who’s under whose control?” Dorian says, all hazy and floaty-slow, like his lips are fumbling against the fabric of the pillows. “You could—” he groans “—try it and see. If you’re so concerned.”

 

“Careful,” the Bull murmurs in his ear, bracing one hand by Dorian’s head as he grips his wrists tightly and thrusts into him. He feels incredible, his body a tight welcoming slide, all friction and heat but just soft enough, open enough, to invite more. “I’ll start thinking you like it,” he adds, and his voice comes out husky and hot over Dorian’s neck.

 

“Bite your tongue,” Dorian says, with that same floaty easiness in his voice. The Bull slides that hand over, curls his hand gentle around Dorian’s graceful bronze column of a throat, forces his head up and back as easy as he can. He strokes his thumb down over his pulse.

 

“I think you do,” he tells him. “Sometimes.”

 

“Ahhh,” Dorian says, lashes fluttering. “Well, you can’t expect a heathen barbarian to appreciate subtlety.”

 

The Bull has to grin at that. He’s such a mouthy little shit, and it’s great. Like the best thing ever. “I think I get the picture,” he says. “Hitch your knees up and get ready, mage boy.” He squeezes his neck, so careful in that moment he almost forgets about the warmth around his cock, about everything but making sure his fingers have exactly the right amount of pressure, not even enough to hurt, until Dorian gasps, and he releases him, lets him down gentle, then slaps that hand against his shoulder to hold him down.

 

“I’m ready for whatever you have,” Dorian says, “which at this point I’m beginning to think is mostly a lot of hot—” The Bull thrusts into him, long and hard, pulls back and thrusts again. Pleasure shoots through him—crap, that feels good. He gasps, tries to focus.

 

“Dick?” he grunts.

 

“—Air,” Dorian finishes, sounding strained, and moans, fingers twitching. The Bull loosens his grip on his wrists just a bit, being certain he’s not holding him too tightly, and rolls his hips to slide his cock further into him.

 

“Hmm,” he says. “Well, I think dick is more accurate.”

 

Dorian groans, his back muscles working and twitching, and he wriggles his shoulders and does hitch his knees up, because damn if he isn’t a good boy, despite all the rest of it. “You certainly do have one, but are you going to do anything w-with it?”

 

“You mean, besides fuck you until you can’t string two words together?” the Bull asks.

 

“Are you ever going to do that, in actuality?” Dorian asks, soft and dreamy. “Because I’ve heard rumors, but—”

 

The Bull thrusts, again, and it breaks off in a groan. “Planning on it,” he tells him, and then he actually does get down to business, rolling his hips between each thrust, nailing that spot inside Dorian on each one like it’s the weak spot in a dragon’s scales. He grips tight around Dorian’s shoulder, not hard enough to bruise, but tight enough that it’ll be hard for him to move, squeezes his wrists and yanks him back into the thrusts, grinding into him. Dorian groans, makes a pleased noise, a whole series of them, before he’s jolted into breathy gasps and little bursts of sound. The Bull doesn’t thrust into him up to the hilt, but the thrusts are plenty deep enough that Dorian’s whimpering and tossing his head before too long. He doesn’t wait for him to get used to the rhythm, he speeds up, lets himself focus on the heat and clench of Dorian’s sweet ass, the way his body feels like it’s pulling him in now, after all that work to open him up, the heat pooling in his gut and shooting through his cock. It feels damn good. He keeps the rhythm fast, in and out over and over again until it probably feels like the pressure on that sweet spot never lets up for Dorian, but it still surprises him when the mage cries out, open and unrestrained, on a particularly hard thrust. He can see Dorian’s eyes go wide, feel the way his wrist jerks under the Bull’s hand like he wants to bring his hand up, slap it over his own mouth, and then he shoves his face roughly into the blankets, bites down on a fold in the sheet.

 

The Bull barely slows down, but he shifts his hand off Dorian’s shoulder, because damn, that’s no good, covers his mouth with his hand and slips his thumb in between those pretty lips. Dorian makes a soft, surprised sound, and the Bull can feel how wet and hot his mouth is, how slick and open his lips are around his thumb. “You can bite down,” he tells him, keeping his voice gruff (though how hot would that be?), and then goes back to fucking him fast and hard, careful to keep his hand still. Dorian just gasps, making sweet little breathy cut off sounds around his thumb for long moments, muffled still further behind the Bull’s hand, before his teeth actually do close down, lightly, at the base of the Bull’s thumb, and the sounds close off into breathy whines and grunts. The Bull would love to hear Dorian yell like he had just then, loud and free with it, but if he’s not there, he’s not there, and having his thumb in his mouth, in that wet heat, is just fine with him, especially as Dorian closes his mouth, sucks just a little, teeth worrying so carefully against the Bull’s knuckle. “Thaaat’ _s_ it,” he encourages him (does Dorian think he’s going to hurt him with his teeth? They’re going to have to have a chat about his pain resistance already), and pulls back to fuck deep into him again. That gets him to jerk and bite down harder, a sound vibrating cut off against the Bull’s skin.

 

The Bull settles into that rhythm, a little slower now, but with more force, each slide into him slow and deep, until Dorian is moaning around his thumb. His cheeks are warm, flushed, the Bull can feel it against his fingers where he’s clasped them over his mouth, but his noises are still being caught against the Bull’s palm, vibrating through his thumb, and it’s much quieter without them.

 

He pulls on his hands a little more, adjusting his position over the bed, then slides back, onto his knees, a long drag that pulls him nearly out of Dorian. The other man moans, gasping, rolls his shoulders and tilts his gaze up as if looking for him, impatient—and then the Bull gets a deep breath, steels himself, and pushes back inside in one long, slow push, making sure his cock is going to hit that sweet spot in Dorian and drag along it, dead on. It feels incredible—he can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, the drum of his pulse, as the pleasure washes up through him, steady and hot, his dick clasped tightly by Dorian’s sweet, hotly tight body. Dorian cries out, sound muffled around the Bull’s thumb, against his palm, and flushes again, deep rose under his skin, but his eyes are fluttering, his lips wet and loose as his mouth slides open. The Bull holds him with that hand on his wrists and grinds into him, rolling his hips slowly, thrusting in tiny little movements. Every huff of air, every noise, Dorian makes disappears into the Bull’s skin, desperate and choked. His knees wobble, and the Bull can feel it, the relaxation in his body, the way he sinks into the pleasure as the Bull keeps up those slow, steady rolling movements of his cock. Dorian feels insanely good like this, though, ass clinging to his dick, hot and squeezing tight around him. He can tell that even this much of his cock is just a little overwhelming for the guy, though—Dorian can’t stop panting, and his knees are spread wide, as if to help make taking him easier. His hole looks stretched out and straining around the Bull’s cock. He’ll probably be sore after, and the Bull makes a mental note of that. He’ll have to be quick about getting the aftercare started, before Dorian thinks to roll out of bed for his own room. There’s no way he wants to see him limping tomorrow because he was stubborn.

 

Overwhelming was what Dorian wanted, though, he made that plenty clear. He whines around the Bull’s thumb again, and the Bull half-closes his eye as he works his cock into him in those tiny, slow movements, circling his hips, in and out, keeping him full. It’s a long, slow tease, not just of Dorian’s sensitive spots inside, but of himself, because Dorian is hot and wet and tight and incredible, and it’s hard to focus on anything other than coming. The Bull’s hoping Dorian can come just from this, without needing a reach-around, because that would be hotter, but he’ll take pity on him soon if he doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.

 

He pushes in as far as he’s willing to go and grinds again, rolling his hips and bending down over Dorian to bite at the curve of his spine again, and all of a sudden Dorian is crying out, hoarse and breathy over his thumb, his breath jerking. He’s not coming, but his cock jolts against his belly and smears wetly, so he’s also not far off. “I’ve got you,” the Bull tells him, trying a slightly harder thrust, pulling back just enough that it jolts through Dorian, and squeezing his wrists while he’s at it. He bites down, into that salt-sweet skin. “You’re mine,” he growls, and that’s it, Dorian gasps in a breathless, helpless way that’s caught against the Bull’s palm, and comes, cock splashing seed across his belly and the blankets. The Bull thinks, with some rueful amusement, that he should have called that one, and nips lightly at the skin of Dorian’s back, planting a messy, wet kiss over the reddened skin where he bit down on him, then pulls his thumb back out of Dorian’s mouth. He can’t help tracing the wet, swollen bottom lip, gentle and slow. Dorian’s just panting, his eyes closed, trembling a little, especially in his thighs. The Bull fucks him through it, even as he traces his lip again, this time with the back of his thumb, hearing the mage’s whining, whimpery little breaths, until Dorian’s cock is limp and spent and the mage is wincing, just a bit, mostly visible in his hips and thighs. Then he pulls out of him, groaning himself at the loss of that tight, squeezing heat, he can’t help it, the way it feels as he slips free of Dorian’s body, prepared for the way Dorian’s knees just slide out from under him so he can catch him and roll him onto his side, bringing his knees back together as he does. Dorian sinks into the bed and breathes out a long, slow sigh of a breath, trembling, then drags a pillow over his head and presses it down over his face. The Bull can’t help chuckling, lightly, reaches for a blanket and tosses it over him, pulling the soiled one out from under him.

 

“Wait,” Dorian slurs, and reaches out without looking to grab at the Bull’s wrist, before he can move the soiled blanket much. “Don’t . . . you haven’t come yet, we might as well, both, both make a mess of it,” he gasps breathily.

 

That surprises the Bull, despite himself. “Was just going to jerk off after,” he grunts, and Dorian’s (puffy, bitten) mobile lips twist in a frown.

 

“Well, that’s no good,” he says, and shifts the pillow off his face so he can scowl at the Bull properly, full on. “No use you going unsatisfied. Here, how do you want me?” He pushes himself up on one elbow.

 

The Bull considers a bit, then gives a half-smile, looking down at him. “Stay there,” he says, reaching out and smoothing one hand over Dorian’s shoulder under the blanket, since he does get cold so easy, but flips the bottom up to reveal his legs. He lies down behind him (making the bed groan a bit, damn thing) and settles one hand on Dorian’s hip, nudging up behind him, bracing himself on his arm so his horns don’t do serious damage to the pillows. “You just press your legs together,” he says, trying not to dwell too much on the offer, but he finds himself drawing circles over Dorian’s hip anyway with his thumb.

 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Dorian mumbles, and obeys, thighs pressing tight together from hip to knee as he rolls more fully onto his side, almost to his front.

 

“Thanks,” the Bull says, presses into that tight, hot space made by his thighs gratefully. Dorian has the most gorgeous thighs, anyway, they’re muscular, but they’ve got the warm roundedness of flesh to them, too, and they practically glow gold in the candlelight with dampness and sweat. He puts one hand on Dorian’s ass, can’t help thumbing against the skin there, very gentle, and then he’s pressing in and Dorian’s thighs squeeze together around him, and crap, that’s good. Dorian knows what he’s doing; he keeps his thighs tight together, pillows his face with one arm and lets his breath out in what sounds like pleasure, so the Bull just curls his hand around his hip to hold him still and lets it go as he slides into him, against him. Between Dorian’s thighs is looser, wetter, than the tight hot squeeze of his ass, but that’s somehow even better for the wild urge to rut the Bull feels winding up inside him. He doesn’t let himself go there entirely, of course, but he does let himself fuck fast and hard between Dorian’s thighs, grab him tight around that hip and just pound into that tight warm channel of velvety skin, until he’s coming with a shout he muffles in Dorian’s shoulder, closing his mouth around his skin as he feels his come pumping out of him, thick and hot.

 

Dorian gasps, shudders under him, gives a little gasp of a groan and blows out his breath. The Bull makes sure he doesn’t let his full weight press down against Dorian, bracing himself on his elbows as he shudders his way through his orgasm. Dorian shifts under him, rolls his ass from side to side, up against the Bull’s cock, and he realizes, belatedly, after a second, that he’s teasing him. The little shit. He braces himself on one arm, still breathing heavily through his nose after his orgasm, pleasure thick and heavy through his body, shaking every piece of him loose and turning them over, and reaches up to run a heavy hand through Dorian’s now _really_ messy hair, brushing it back off his forehead, letting his palm linger there heavy as he runs his fingers over the back of his head. Dorian sighs and lets his head drop forward so that his forehead is supported by the heel of the Bull’s palm. His hair is so rarely disordered that the Bull finds himself running his fingers through it extra, not really thinking, just watching the black strands spill out, wavy, over his fingers. Dorian is breathing out slowly, and the Bull just lets the time pass for a few seconds, before he has himself back together enough to ruffle the hair under his hand and roll off Dorian, onto his side, still propping himself on one arm, letting his hand trail down Dorian’s back, lingering over his ass, how Dorian’s thighs are splashed wet with his own spend now. He can’t deny that he does get a little possessive about these things, and he brushes his hand down between Dorian’s legs, just to feel it, skimming one finger through the damp trail over the side of one thigh.

 

Dorian blows out his breath more huffily, reaches back with one arm to slap at Bull’s biceps. “After debauching me thoroughly, you could at least have the courtesy not to gloat about it,” he says, but there’s no real heat in it whatsoever.

 

“I’m appreciating,” the Bull protests mildly, but he takes his hand away and straightens up, though not without one last squeeze of Dorian’s ass.

 

“My thighs are filthy,” Dorian says, yawning and covering his mouth with one hand as he does, because he’s like that. The Bull grins at him and tugs him over onto his back, tugging at the stained blanket and using it to wipe down the mess over Dorian’s thighs and groin. Dorian sighs, but lets him, looking up at him and running his fingers back and forth over the Bull’s arm rather than protesting, shivering slightly at the touches.

 

“There you go,” the Bull tells him, and Dorian smiles slightly and doesn’t respond. The Bull figures he’ll just keep at it, then, balls up the blanket and tosses it off the bed to deal with later, then leans back to open the chest at the bottom of the bed and get out the salve he keeps there, finding the bottle of oil he was using earlier in the bed, making sure the cap is on securely, and then setting it aside. He coats his fingers in the salve, then taps his knuckles against the underside of Dorian’s thigh.

 

“What’s this, now?” Dorian yawns again, stretching one arm languidly out behind his head, curling it back to support himself against the pillow, but he curls the fingers of his other hand around his thigh and tugs it up, opening himself gracefully. The Bull smiles at that—the mage sure is a pretty guy, graceful, and all of it—and brings his fingers in to rub them gently over the puffy flesh of Dorian’s hole. Dorian sucks in a breath, bites his lip, and his eyes flutter. “Goodness,” he murmurs, low.

 

“Don’t want you to get sore,” the Bull explains. And Dorian _is_ tender, he hisses and shifts as the Bull’s fingers probe at him. “This should help.”

 

“What is it?” Dorian asks, lazily, and the Bull puts the open jar of salve on his stomach. Dorian brings his arm down from behind his head to pick it up, peering at it. “Elfroot,” he says, mutters, half to himself, “clearly, and . . .” he dips a finger in, sniffs at it. “Spindleweed?” he says.

 

“And Crystal Grace,” the Bull adds. “I first started picking it up in Orlais on a mission to guard a caravan—the caravan master had some, and the stuff works wonders for soreness.”

 

Dorian huffs out a breath. “You think an awful lot of your size, don’t you?” he sniffs, but he’s also gasping and shifting a little as the Bull slips a finger up inside him, and he feels tender and raw, hot to the touch.

 

“Ha, I wasn’t just clawing at the mattress and pleading to get fucked,” the Bull points out, picking up the jar to get a good bit more on his fingers, then going back to smooth it into him. “Besides, it’s better than limping the next day.” He slips his finger back out, makes certain to rub it thoroughly into the rim of Dorian’s hole, the still fluttering muscles, then starts to widen the circles he’s making with his fingers, massaging the stuff into the muscles of his ass, the sensitive skin between his hole and his balls. He’ll do his thighs next.

 

“Hmph,” Dorian says, but he sighs a little as the Bull pushes in his fingers against a tense muscle, and his eyelashes flutter again. “I was impatient with how much time you were taking, that’s all.”

 

The Bull grins at that, can’t keep it back. “Sure,” he says.

 

“It felt as if it took hours,” Dorian says, but he lets his head loll back into the pillows and sighs. “I don’t suppose you know what time it is, do you?”

 

“Time for everyone else to be in bed?” the Bull suggests. “So you don’t have to worry about it?” He flicks teasingly at Dorian’s knee, and Dorian frowns at him and shoos his hand away with his fingers.

 

“I would like to get some sleep,” he says, with some asperity.

 

“Then go to sleep,” the Bull suggests. “Roll over on your front.”

 

Somewhat to his surprise, though Dorian scowls at him, he actually does, and catches a pillow between his arms, resting his cheek on it. “Your bed smells as if something died in it,” he mumbles into the soft cotton.

 

“Something did, in a sense,” the Bull says wickedly, still gently running his fingers up and down the crease of Dorian’s ass. He spreads his legs apart, rests his hands on the tops of his thighs, and rubs his thumb there, over his hole, making sure the rest of the salve is rubbed into Dorian’s skin.

 

“That was terrible,” Dorian says into the pillow, quivering under the touches. “I protest. Help. I’m being tormented by a qunari with bad sexual innuendo—ahh.” He lets his breath out as the Bull covers both hands in the salve and runs them, firmly, down over the backs of his thighs. Which are still gorgeous, by the way, even more so beneath his hands. He digs his fingers in, really gets at the muscles before they start to tighten up after the strain. Dorian groans into the pillows.

 

“Torment,” the Bull says, “I like the sound of that.”

 

“You,” Dorian says, all warm and soft, “are an unstoppable beast.”

 

“True,” the Bull agrees. “Thanks, by the way.”

 

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Dorian says, laughing.

 

“Thanks anyway,” the Bull tells him. There’s a long moment, of him massaging salve into Dorian’s really, really amazing legs, and then Dorian sighs, melts a little more into the pillows.

 

“You’re welcome, I suppose,” he mutters, but the Bull can see the way he’s smiling, the grin at the edge of his lips.


End file.
